


Seashells and Butterflies

by Nekekur



Category: Senki Zesshou Symphogear
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cop/Gangster AU, F/F, Smut, disclaimer: this fic is not an accurate representation of the probation system, warning: contains depictions of violence / sex abuse / drugs / cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 04:38:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13000035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekekur/pseuds/Nekekur
Summary: Probation Officer Miku Kohinata thinks it'll be easy when the case for Chris Yukine falls into her lap.  Just another criminal to handle, right?  Chris has a rap sheet Miku's seen before: firearms, gang violence, drug trade... and of course, murder.MikuChris cop/gangster au





	Seashells and Butterflies

 

At first glance, Miku's office seemed like any other.

Filing cabinets made a bulwark along her wall, while papers cluttered her desk.  Punctuating the hum of computers was the occasional phone ring and automated recording of “If you know your party's extension, dial it now.”

The air conditioning was about as reliable as any office's air conditioning.  Intermittent at best.  Even this late in the afternoon, sweat beaded on everyone's brow.

Summer blazed in full swing in Symphony City.  Their coastal city was granted some mercy from the heat, with cool breezes rolling in from the ocean. But a hot day was still a hot day.  Especially for Miku in her business skirt and long-sleeved blouse.

She kept a little plug-in fan atop the filing cabinets to help manage the heat.  The fan swiveled its head back and forth, keeping sentinel over her work space.

Sure, it was a normal office.  If you ignored some decidedly _abnormal_ details.

Like the fact many employees wore holstered guns.  Or the fact there was an armory down the hall racked with even more, where deputies who didn't already have a firearm could sign one out to carry on a high-risk arrest.

You'd also need to ignore legal advisory notices pinned to every wall, tomes of law code on the bookshelves, and security cameras perched like red-eyed spiders in the high corners of the main hall.

Miku and every other probation department employee wore a photo I.D. badge clipped to their shirt.  No badge, no entry.  Unless you were a legally approved visitor, or a detainee escorted in handcuffs.

The main door to their office building could only be opened by badge-swipe and a confirmation button press from the bailiff behind the bulletproof window.  Even clearing that step, you still had to make it through the metal detectors.

A normal office also probably didn't have an x-ray conveyor belt all bags must pass through before they were allowed inside.  And god forbid you forgot to take your lunch out of your bag before sending it along the belt for screening.  Security officers had a notoriously poor sense of humor.  Miku lost more than one lovingly-home-made sandwich to the x-ray officer's “finders keepers” rule.

Woven through the typical office noise was the occasional scratch-bark of police radios.  The probation department was separate from the police, but the two teams still cooperated as fellow law enforcement.  Police officers caught people and brought them to court, and probation officers like Miku handled them after that.

The probation department technically worked for the court system, so Miku and the rest were housed at Symphony City's courthouse instead of the police station.  A few halls over from her office, judges and attorneys and clerks went about the day-to-day running of the justice department that oversaw all of Symphony County.

Miku's office mate and fellow Deputy Probation Officer sat across the paper-swamped desk.  Like Miku, Kirika wore an I.D. badge clipped to her shirt, but her photo boasted a cheerful grin in comparison to Miku's solemn picture.

Apparently, no one during training gave Kirika the memo that a deputy was supposed to look serious for their picture, not like they were about to sell you a box of Thin Mints.

Kirika never sat still.  She was a lanky blonde parakeet, rarely letting a moment pass without shifting, twitching, head-cocking, or just chatting away happily.

It was a mystery to Miku why Kirika wore fingerless gloves and knee-high spats every day regardless of the heat.  Kirika also wore her uniform black polo shirt with a yellow star patch on the breast, the words “Symphony County Probation Officer” scrolled beneath it.  Sometimes she even wore her brass shield-badge around her neck on its chain lanyard, as if she was ready to go make a field arrest.

Yep, just another young rookie fresh out of training, eager to prove something.

Miku smiled to herself.   _Well look at me, the grizzled veteran at age twenty-six,_ she thought wryly.  Kirika was only five years younger, but even a small gap made all the difference in their line of work.

Despite their differences, they got along well.  Except for one small habit of Kirika's that nearly drove Miku to reach for the pistol holstered in her purse.

Miku wasn't one to start a confrontation.  But she drew the line at incessant leg-jiggling.  Their entire desk shook, making it impossible for Miku to focus.

“Kirika.  Leg, please.”

A quiet reminder from time to time was all Kirika needed.  She usually didn't even realize she was bouncing it.

“Oh, right!  Sorry, Miku.”

She stopped right away.  Their desk stilled.  For now.

The wide desk fit one deputy on each side.  They faced each other, or would if they weren't usually staring at computers and papers.

A no-man's land divided the two halves of their desk, a buffer of table space where by silent agreement both women dumped objects neither of them wanted to claim responsibility for disposing of like adults.  Crumpled sticky notes, dried up pens, and a days-old empty paper coffee cup Miku hadn't bothered to toss, which Kirika re-purposed into a mini trash bin to hold wrappers from those energy bars the blonde scarfed down several times a day.

When Kirika joined the probation department, she probably envisioned something more exciting than sitting at a messy desk all day.  Like supervising dangerous felons, raiding drug dens, or one-on-one interviews in dark windowed rooms to inveigle evidence out of a slick criminal.

This job entailed all of that from time to time.  But law enforcement mostly consisted of paperwork.  Lots and lots of paperwork.

Probation officers supervised convicted criminals, but they were also responsible for determining which criminals got probation in the first place.  Deputies like Miku and Kirika spent hours each day filling out case reports and sending them next door to the judges for approval.

Miku and the other deputies could be ordered to evaluate anyone who passed through the court system, whether they were accused of something as basic as shoplifting and vandalism, or as serious as rape and murder.  A probation officer needed a strong stomach to deal with these reports, and with the criminals themselves.

Or rather, with the defendants.  Most of these reports were written before the person's trial and conviction.  You couldn't call someone a “criminal” on pre-conviction reports, because technically they had not been found guilty of a crime yet.  It was only an allegation.  So the court called them the “defendant”, as this person was on trial to legally defend themselves against these allegations.

Miku and Kirika used any resource available to fill out reports.  They scoured police databases, read crime scene files, talked with victims of the crime, even checked employment history and driving records, all to get information about the defendant.  After the trial, they interviewed the 'dant in person to get a better measure of him, and to hear his side of the story for why he committed the crime in the first place.

Whatever it took to get the necessary information for the court to decide whether it was safe for this defendant to be granted probation and remain in society, or if the 'dant was too dangerous and he or she must be sentenced to prison.

It was a solitary endeavor.  They shared a work space and coordinated with the rest of their unit, but each deputy was responsible for a separate caseload.  As a probation officer, you were a lonely boatman ferrying the crew of lawbreakers assigned you by the court.

Genjuurou's deep voice boomed from the center of their office complex, snatching Miku and Kirika's attention from their reports.

“Late referrals just rolled in,” he called to everyone.  “Come out and get 'em, before I paper-plane them into your offices.  You all know I fold a sharp edge.”

A chorus of groans wheezed from the cluster of offices like a stepped-on toad.  No one liked late referral cases.  They required the same amount of work as regular cases, but were due back in only a fraction of the time.  Deputies had deadlines just like any other job.

Genjuurou's full title was Supervising Deputy Probation Officer.  But no one had time for that, so Miku and the others just called him the Sup.

Miku and Kirika rose from their chairs and followed his voice.  The other two deputies emerged from their own office as well.  Everyone gathered in the central area with the Sup and the stack of papers he held.  This open area served as a little hub for their unit, with rooms branching off like wheel spokes.

Symphony City kept several units of probation officers, but this cluster of rooms belonged to their small group alone.  All four deputies stood in front of their Sup, waiting for him to distribute their new cases.

Shirabe was the eldest and most experienced among them by decades.  But she was such a tiny doll of a woman that 'dants often underestimated her.  They learned their mistake soon enough. Shirabe did not suffer fools.

In contrast, Shirabe's office mate was as large as Shirabe was petite, and muscular enough she looked like she could fold Shirabe in half and tuck her in her pocket.  Where Shirabe was monotone and joyless, Kanade was always willing to share a grin or bellow a congratulatory GOOD MORNING to every coworker who survived the x-ray gauntlet at the start of the day.

Miku couldn't understand how a quiet little crow like Shirabe shared her work space with a big loud rooster like Kanade.  Somehow they made it work.

Once Miku, Kirika, Kanade, and Shirabe gathered to receive their cases, Genjuurou got to work sorting.  His massive hands made the papers look small.  On a summer afternoon like this, his sleeves were rolled to the elbow.  Lions, music notes, and other designs inked his muscular forearms.  Office gossip said he had more tattoos hidden.

“Here we go.”  Genjuurou pulled a folder from the stack.  “First one up is a D.U.I. case.”

Miku reached for it out of habit, but he passed it to Kanade instead.

“Shirabe, next one's for you.”

Shirabe took the stapled packet he held out for her.  “Let me guess, another domestic violence case?  I had two of those last week.”

“Close,” he replied.  “It's a code 288.”

Everyone but Shirabe winced.  It was universally agreed 288s were the worst to work on.

“Charming.”  Shirabe's voice was as flat as an iced-over lake.

Shirabe was exceptionally sharp in her skills, her reasoning, and her ability to give absolutely zero fucks about her 'dants, even 288 molesters.  How she interviewed those vile specimens for details of their crimes and emerged completely unruffled always amazed Miku.

Deputies weren't required to wear their field uniforms to the office.  Miku, Kanade, and Genjuurou wore typical business dress.  Shirabe and Kirika were the odd ones out, wearing their uniform black polos and cargo pants every day.  But on Shirabe, the contrast was too stark, the shirt too dark against her pale skin.  She seemed a white-faced corpse marched out of its coffin to dispense justice to lawbreakers.

Shirabe had the classic aura of Seen It All that only old salts of law enforcement could manage.  She had worn a deputy's uniform since Miku was still drawing with crayons.  Everyone in the unit looked up to Shirabe.  And everyone was a little intimidated by her.

Their new rookie in particular.  Poor Kirika wavered between “slightly afraid” and “more than slightly attracted”.  But Shirabe was oblivious to both options.  Or acted like she was.

The Sup didn't care what his deputies did as long as they got their work done, so Miku and Kanade were the only ones who found the unspoken tension between their office mates hilarious.  Miku carefully avoided looking at Kanade right now.  She knew if they made eye contact over Shirabe's tiny oblivious head, neither of them would be able to keep a straight face.

Kanade had that gift, always finding humor to share even when surrounded by the wickedness they saw every day.  Everyone coped with the stress of this job differently.

Genjuurou shuffled more late referrals and passed them out.  One stapled packet for Kirika, another folder for Kanade.

Miku was about to ask why he skipped her, when he came to the last folder in his hands.

“This one...”

He hesitated.  A rarity for Genjuurou, normally the epitome of stoic confidence.

“...it's a special case.”

At that, every head lifted from skimming papers to stare curiously at the final folder.

“Miku, I believe you have what it takes to handle it.”

Slowly, Miku reached out and accepted the folder.  Strange...  He didn't hesitate over the other cases, not even the 288.  What could be worse than that?

The other deputies were just as puzzled.

“Don't keep us in suspense, Sup!” Kanade said, peering over Shirabe to attempt a closer look at Miku's case.  “What's special about it?”

When he didn't answer, Miku thumbed open the folder to see for herself.

She blinked at the seal stamped at the head of the page.  All probation documents bore Symphony County's official seal, a design of music notes curling from a seashell.  But the design topping this page was unfamiliar.

Miku read the words beneath the seal aloud.

“City of Eridu, Superior Court.”

Well, that only made her more confused.

“What in the world?  This isn't our jurisdiction.  Eridu is in the next county inland, away from us here on the coast.”

Kanade nodded.  “Miku's right.  The city of Eridu has a completely separate probation system from Symphony County.  Why was our department assigned a crime committed in Eridu?”

Shirabe said nothing.  Had the Seen It All ever seen an out-of-area defendant like this?

Kirika started bouncing her foot unconsciously again.  Miku didn't bother to tell her this time.

Genjuurou crossed his arms.  “As I said.  Special case.”

Every head turned to stare at him now rather than the folder.  When he realized his unit would not go back to work until they got an explanation, he sighed.

“Look, some sort of politics went down.  It's over my head.  I'm only assigning what I was ordered.  Point is, our department was given responsibility for this case instead of Eridu's probation department.  The inter-county compact got approved by the higher-ups, so now it's our duty to see justice done.  Or rather, it's Miku's.”

He clapped a hand on her shoulder encouragingly.

“Miku, I'm trusting you with this.”  He eyed the other officers.  “And I'm trusting the rest of you to keep your mouths closed.  If I hear anything about this case outside our office, I'm doubling the next batch of late referrals.  If you got time to gossip, you got time to evaluate ‘dants.”

He let go of Miku's shoulder, all business again.

“Now, you all have your assignments.  Any questions?  Good.  Get to it, deputies.”

With that, he returned to his own office.  The door frame was barely tall enough to fit him.  Before shutting the door behind him, he gave one last order.

“Miku, the E.D.P. for that case needs to be written up by noon tomorrow.”

She slumped a little.   _You're telling me I have less than a day to get the Early Disposition done?_ Even late referrals usually gave you a couple days.  Why did the higher-ups want such a rush on this case?

With deadlines looming, the others returned their attention to their late referrals instead of Miku's.  Kanade flipped through her folder, searching for a specific set of pages.  She groaned when she couldn't find them.

“Damn, no D.A. packet included with this one.  Now I'll be here all night trawling the databases for info the prosecutor should've already prepared for the court hearing.  They love making our job harder, don't they.”

She raked a hand through her thick red crest ruefully.

“Tsubasa will kick my ass if I come home late again.  She thinks I keep a second wife somewhere who I spend my evenings with.”

“Long hours and late nights are part of the job,” Shirabe chided her office mate.  “Anyone who wants to date law enforcement must be able to handle that.”

“I could handle it!”

Kirika went pink when she realized what she just blurted.

“I mean… you know.  Hypothetically.  If… if I met someone.”

She dropped her eyes and trailed off into an embarrassed mutter.

Miku expected Kirika to fall victim to teasing from Kanade or more chiding from Shirabe.  But Kanade held her tongue, and all Shirabe gave was an encouraging, "I am sure you could.  You'll make a good deputy, Kiri."

The praise surprised Kirika as much as the nickname.  Actually, Miku and Kanade were equally surprised.  For Shirabe to thaw even a few degrees was rare.

Miku decided it was probably time to take Kirika back to their office before she embarrassed herself further.

“Well, looks like we've got a busy rest of the afternoon ahead of us,” Miku said.  “Good luck with your cases, everyone.”

She nudged Kirika to get her moving.  Miku felt like an exasperated mother bird swooping in to collect her chick from the forest floor after failing its first nest-jump.

“She must think I'm a dolt,” Kirika said once they were settled back at their desk.  She drooped unhappily in her chair.

They kept the door open as usual.  But with the space between offices and the background noise of Miku's plug-in fan, conversations were quiet enough to be private.

Miku reached across the desk to give Kirika a comforting pat on her gloved knuckles.

“Don't be too hard on yourself.  Shirabe would not have said you'll make a good deputy if she did not believe it.  She rarely encourages new people. ”

Miku remembered her own first meeting with Shirabe.  Genjuurou and Kanade each gave Miku a clap on the shoulder and a smile to welcome her aboard the unit.  Shirabe only offered a stiff handshake.

“You're a kind person, I can see,” Shirabe had said.  Her small hand was cold in Miku's grasp.  “But in this line of work, you will find that what is Kind and what is Just rarely overlap.  If you want to serve justice, let your kindness die.”

Miku had not known what to say to that.  Five years later, she still didn't.

Kirika did not seem to mind Shirabe's coldness.  Or maybe she saw more to Shirabe than Miku did.  Shirabe being twice her age fazed Kirika not at all.

“She likes you more than she likes most people, that’s for sure,” Miku said.

Kirika perked up like a dog who heard the front door open after their owner was away a while.

“Y--you really think so?  How can you tell?”

“I've never heard her use a nickname for anyone before, _Kiri_.”

“Hah, she did call me that, didn't she.”  Kirika rubbed the back of her head self-consciously, but she looked pleased.

Miku could not blame Shirabe for having a soft spot.  Kirika was awfully cute, with her unending exuberance and cheerful outlook on life.  They'd see how long _that_ lasted in a job like this.

Miku’s throat clenched in pain when she realized Kirika reminded her of another bubbly young blonde brimming with optimism.

Absently, Miku twirled the engagement ring on her left hand.

Seven years she’d worn it.  Seven years since she and Hibiki promised to spend the rest of their lives together.  Seven years since that promise was shattered.

 _We were younger than Kirika when we got engaged_ , she recalled.

But now Miku would never see Hibiki reach Kirika's age, would never exchange an “I do” with her, would never grow old alongside her, would never live the happy future which hopeful Hibiki envisioned for them.  Hibiki inspired Miku to be brave enough to hope, to _believe,_ in such a future as well.

But when Miku had kissed Hibiki's closed eyelids in farewell, Miku returned the hope she'd been given back to Hibiki, leaving it there like an offering for the ferryman.  Miku's happy future died with Hibiki and followed her beyond the river, beyond return.

Miku pushed grief away.  It was something she'd gotten good at over the years.

She focused on her work instead.  It was all she had now.

Miku wanted to tear into the “special case” Genjuurou assigned her.  To find out who he or she was, what crime they were charged with, and why Eridu sent it to Symphony City for trial.

But to Miku's frustration, her other cases were due soon, too.  Not just evaluation reports on new ‘dants, but progress reports on the people already under her supervision, to make sure they were obeying their probation and being law-abiding citizens.  A deputy was never idle.

Regretfully, Miku set the “special case” to the side for now.  She had the feeling it might be one of those complex cases that would gobble up all her attention once she started it, leaving no time to finish the rest of the reports on her plate.

Miku and Kirika settled into their cases.  Kirika did her usual parakeet-fidgets, and the two of them chatted occasionally if they came across a particularly noteworthy detail.  But for the most part, they were quietly companionable as they worked.  The sooner they got these reports done, the sooner they could go home.  It didn't help when the criminal databases loaded at a snail-slow pace.

The air conditioning crapped out again as the afternoon wore on.  Miku worked a finger under the collar of her blouse, tugging it against the heat.

Across the desk, Kirika grunted as she finished one case and opened the next.  “Jeez, another drug-runner.”

“Linker?” Miku asked.

“Yep.  Possession for sale.”

Miku clicked her tongue.  “It's spreading.  Linker cases more than doubled this year.”

Linker was the latest drug creeping into their city like a smothering fog.  Born from some sort of pharmaceutical treatment, the street version gave an incredible high.  At a price.  Linker could break a body down piece by piece like a demolition.  And overdoses were all too easy with such an addictive drug.

Symphony City's hospitals teemed with horrific tales of overdosed patients dumped outside the doors, quivering in puddles of their own vomited blood, screaming and spasming as the drug tore them apart from within their veins.  The morgue had sadder Linker tales to tell.

Miku wished Kirika luck on her Linker cases.  At least both deputies were making progress on their reports.  The afternoon wilted into evening, but its warmth remained even after the orange glow of sunset faded from the blinds on their office window.  Miku's little fan blew on valiantly, still doing its bravest to keep the heat at bay.

A holler boomed out from the general direction of Kanade's office, half incredulous and half impressed.

“Got an Assault with a Deadly Weapon case here.  This 'dant beat somebody with a window squeegee.   _A window squeegee!_ ”

By the court's definition, any object counted as a “deadly weapon” if you harmed the victim with it severely enough.

“I see your window squeegee and raise you an aluminum coffee tumbler!” Kirika hollered back across the hall.  She lifted a paper from one of her cases and waved it in the air like a bidding stub at a cockfight.

Miku laughed with Kirika.  “Get Shirabe to sweeten on you some more.  Maybe she'll tell you about the list she's kept over the years of the strangest objects ever classified as deadly weapons.  I hear 'potted plants' are on there.”

The mention of strange cases reminded Miku of the folder she'd been avoiding.

She eyed the “special case” at the corner of her desk.  Well... these other reports were done for now.  Even if Miku did not have time to finish the Eridu case tonight, she could at least look at it, right?

Curiosity won out over responsibility.  She pulled the folder to her and opened it.

Miku ran a finger along the name bolded under the header.  Defendant: Chris Yukine.

Whoever Chris Yukine was, she landed herself in serious trouble.  Miku would mine further info from the databases, but these pages were plenty bloated already.

Miku waded into the folder’s disorganized mess of information she would have to compose into a readable report.  There was demographic data, police serial numbers, the date Yukine was entered into the probation system, warrant holds, prosecuting attorney's name, which law agency took the 'dant into custody...  All those numbers and fragmented text lines swarmed the page like a buzzing cloud of insects competing for attention.

After years in the job, Miku’s brain automatically translated the legal codes as she read.  All the horrors humans visited upon each other, reduced to an impersonal string of numbers and letters.  It was one way to stay sane.  Reading “12022.7(A) PC” was less painful than reading what that legal code actually stood for: “During the course of this crime, the defendant personally inflicted great bodily injury upon the victim.”

Miku wondered who Yukine’s victim was and how badly they were injured.  There was an extra code tacked on to indicate this was not Yukine’s first violent felony.

But where was the code for the current offense?  What crime was Yukine actually going to court for?

Across the desk, Kirika watched Miku turn pages deeper into the folder.  She seemed to wonder the same thing.

“Why's this one special, Miku?  Another 288, like Shirabe's case?”

Miku kept reading until she found the answer.  Once she did, she wished she hadn't.

“It's a 187,” Miku replied.

Her office mate was quiet a moment.

“It's just... just another murder, right?” Kirika said, once she gathered herself.  She tried to shrug off her discomfort.  “We see plenty of those.”

They did.  But that never made it any easier.

It was protocol to interview victims of a crime.  They already gave official statements to the police, but probation officers asked different questions.  About how the crime impacted them, and whether the 'dant was likely to impact others the same way if allowed to stay out of prison on probation.

Interviewing victims of a 187 case was impossible, of course.  Coffins weren't very chatty.  So Miku and other deputies interviewed the victim's next of kin.  These people all told the same stories, in the same hollow voices, with the same tear-choked pain and impotent rage.  They spoke about their lost loved one, about the devastation a murder brought entire families, about how it didn't matter what punishment the court decided, because nothing could bring back what was gone.

What could a deputy say when faced with that?  All Miku could do was thank them for their input and promise she would present an honest evaluation to the judge hearing the defendant's case.

Miku thumbed her engagement ring again.  She understood how it felt to lose someone.

She moved to the prior record section of Yukine's file.  It was only a few lines, which was shorthand for, “Too long to type, look it up yourself.”  Miku sighed.  She would be spending a long time waiting for the databases to load on this case, wouldn't she.

Those few lines also noted Yukine had been causing trouble in the city of Eridu since she was a juvenile.  Firearms violations, threats, assaults, and other violence.  Another code on the page indicated the current murder was committed by firearm as well.  And now Symphony City agreed to take this thug into their jurisdiction instead?  Wonderful.

Miku shook her head in distaste.  “It says here the higher-ups are pushing for probation.  Are they serious?  This woman is charged with purposely shooting someone to death.  Do they honestly think a murderer will be granted probation if she's convicted?”

“She's not even legally _eligible_ for probation, with a charge like that,” Kirika pointed out.

Miku nodded agreement.  'Dants accused of serious crimes were usually auto-rejected for probation.  State prison was the norm for these cases.  No one wanted violent felons out on the streets.  Still, probation officers had to write an unbiased evaluation of every assigned defendant, even ones with no chance at probation.

Miku read further into the puddle of legal codes soaking the papers.  That one there, it meant...

“...I see.  The higher-ups want the court to officially deem this an Unusual Case.  If that gets approved, normal standards are out.  This must be how they're bypassing the fact she's ineligible for probation.”

“Huh.”  Kirika tilted her head.  As if considering this case from a different degree angle might cause it to make sense.  “Protocol says the Unusual Case clause must be offered on every report.  But I’ve never actually seen the court invoke it.”

“I've only seen it once,” Miku admitted.  “I doubt even Shirabe has seen it more than a few times.”

Miku wished she knew _why_ this case was supposedly unusual.  There must be a reason Symphony City's department leaders accepted this transfer from Eridu, and why they wanted a killer to stay out of prison.

Miku tapped a finger on another oddity in Yukine’s file.

“That’s a gang injunction code.  So, not only does Chris Yukine have a pending murder charge and a lengthy prior record, she's also got gang ties?  What a mess.  Even more reason to deny her probation.”

Miku found the gang's name on another page and read it aloud.

“The Babylon Butterflies?”

The name meant nothing to her.  Symphony City suffered from its own gangs, chief among them the Symphony City Trebles, nicknamed the “Troubles”.  But they were only gutter rats compared to rumors she caught of the vicious gangs of neighboring Eridu.

“She's a _Butterfly?!”_

Clearly, the name did not mean nothing to Kirika.  Miku lifted her eyes from the page at her office mate's outcry.

“You've heard of them, Kirika?  That's right, you grew up in Eridu.  Ever run into any Babylon Butterflies?”

“Well, they're infamous over there.  Everybody's heard of the Babylon Butterflies.  At least... everybody's heard what happens to people who cross them.  Eridu’s canals contain more corpses than the graveyards do.  But actually meeting a Butterfly in person?  I'm not sure...”

Kirika shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“I left that hellhole of a city soon as I turned eighteen and the orphanage's custody over me expired.  I'm never going back to Eridu.  Never.”

Miku didn't ask for elaboration.  Kirika plainly did not enjoy talking about her childhood.

Instead, Miku kept reading.  The strangeness continued when she came to the “Date of Offense” listing.  This murder was committed only a few weeks ago.  Murder cases usually took many months to move through the court system.  But Eridu stitched this case together in a rush and shipped it off to Symphony City just as fast.

Miku rubbed her temple.  Trying to make sense of Yukine's case was going to give her a headache.

“This case should've been designated for the high-profile template.  But Genjuurou told me the department wants an Early Disposition report instead.  Why are they trying to pass this case off as a simple E.D.P.?”

Those were usually for less serious crimes.  Theft, minor drugs, fraud.  Not murder.  Something was very wrong with this...

Despite the heat, a narrow chill ran down Miku's neck when she came to a realization she should have made sooner.

“Someone in Eridu is trying to bury this case.”

Must be why that someone convinced the department heads in Symphony City to take jurisdiction instead.  How he or she did so, and how they expected Chris Yukine to get anything other than a prison sentence, was still a mystery.

“You mean they kicked their shit into our yard instead?” Kirika asked.

Kirika had not been a deputy for long, but she already picked up cop rough-talk, despite Miku's best influence.

“Kirika, not only did they kick their shit into our yard, they scraped their boots off on our porch.”

Okay, Miku admitted maybe she wasn't the best influence after all.

“Would you believe this, Kirika!  It says here Eridu set her bail at an obscene amount, but she still posted bail.  This 'dant is out of her cage and already on her way to Symphony City to prepare for next week's court hearing.”

Goodness, why was this woman granted bail?  She should be kept in a cell and only taken out under guard.  Yet the Eridu court simply let her roam free after the trade to Symphony City?

Nothing about this case was in line with how the probation department normally worked.  Genjuurou's excuse of “some sort of politics went down” only scratched the surface.  These were murky waters Miku was toeing, with no idea what sort of beast waited to bite her whole foot off.

There were pages more for her to read of this mystery lying open on her desk.  But it was already late in the evening, and she could tell this case required an emotional stamina Miku already exhausted for the day.

Deeper in the case file, she would find grisly details of the murder.  Worse in a way would be details about the victim.  Who they were, and who they left behind.  Miku could not face all of that right now. 

Those pages might not have more info about the defendant herself.  For now, all Miku had was a name with no face.  If she wanted Yukine's mugshot, she would need to search the databases.

Miku rolled her shoulder joints with a groan.  There was much more information to cull before writing the report she would present to the judge prior to Yukine's court hearing.  She would also need to make phone calls for even further input.  The process would take hours.

Miku let Chris Yukine drop for now.  That headache of a case was not going anywhere soon.

Maybe sleeping on this case would give her a new perspective come morning.  At the least, it would renew her energy to tackle it.

“Well, the other reports are taken care of,” she said to Kirika.  “I think I ought to call it a night.  I'll finish the special case in the morning.”

Miku shut Yukine's folder with a smack and laid it atop the pile of her other cases.  She rose from her chair, stretching her arms above her head.  Back to the grind tomorrow.

She slung her purse over her shoulder, briefly opening it to make sure she didn't leave any essentials behind.  Keys, phone, wallet, gun.  The usual.

She nodded to herself when she saw her Glock was still safely holstered in her purse and hadn't shifted around during the day.  She took it out each morning for the x-ray officer to inspect, but otherwise it lived a quiet life in its holster insert.  Miku was not reckless enough to carry her gun with a round chambered, unlike some criminals she’d met, so there was no chance of it discharging accidentally.  But it never hurt to check.

“Want a ride home, Kirika?”

“Thanks, but I’ll stay and work on my reports a little more.”  Kirika jerked her head at her monitor.  In a quieter voice, she added, “Shirabe usually stays late, too...”

Miku didn't bother trying to stop a smile.  “Well then, good night and good luck to you.”  Miku winked at her.  “With the reports, that is.”

Kirika blushed, but smiled back.

It seemed everyone but Miku had plans for the night.  With that realization, the grief Miku always suppressed now reared up like a cobra ready to strike.  After a stressful work day, she didn't have the strength to combat it tonight.

 _I need a drink_ , she decided.

And perhaps she could pick up something to sate her a little deeper than a drink.

Maybe it was Kanade's mention of her wife waiting at home, or Kirika puppy-crushing on Shirabe, or maybe it was just the summer heat stoking something primal.  Whatever the cause, Miku felt loneliness well in her heart, and something else throb lower in her body.

As Miku left her and Kirika's office and headed back to the main lobby, all she could think of was her fiancée.  Hibiki's warm laugh, her strong hands, her gentle lips on Miku's skin.

She wanted Hibiki's comforting presence tonight more than she wanted anything.  But she couldn't be with Hibiki, so...

_Just find someone for the night.  It'll be okay, right?_

Miku should know better.  The few one-night stands she attempted over the past seven years never loosened her grief.  In fact, the heartsick feeling was usually worse the next morning.

Rationally, she knew this plan was a mistake.  But, the combination of loneliness and lust was anything but rational.

Well, a few drinks would distract her from the loneliness as much as a companion for the night would.  And Miku knew exactly which bar to visit to fulfill both those needs.

Thankfully, the x-ray conveyor belt didn't waste time checking outgoing bags.  With a wave at the bailiff behind the bulletproof window, Miku swept out of the office, through the courthouse's main lobby, and into a hot summer night in Symphony City.

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End file.
